Credo
by Cameron Kennedy
Summary: AU, 1502. Fueled by revenge, Lovino Vargas hasn't failed an assassination job yet - but when a new Spanish captain comes to Rome, killing the unorthodox Antonio Carriedo might just be the death of him. Spamano.
1. From the first encounter

**The Less Formal, Alternate Summary:** Lovino is a badass with a sucky past, Antonio is both hopelessly confused and hopelessly confusing, and (predictably) they don't fight for the same team. Let the games begin.

**Warnings:** Lots of violence, mild dark themes, filthy language, and one strange cat-and-mouse relationship.

**Disclaimed**. Hetalia is the property of Himaruya and others.

* * *

XXX

* * *

**Credo **_  
_

_From the first encounter_

* * *

XXX

* * *

A woman gives a short scream of surprise as a laughing man wraps his arms around her waist from behind. A vendor down the narrow cobblestone street boasts of the pears he has for sale. Bystanders attempt to ignore the minstrel playing for spare coins. The witchdoctor coerces a young boy into buying his cures. An aging mother leans out the second-story window of a building and shouts onto the clamor below for her teenaged daughter to hurry back when she finishes with her errands. On a platform, a herald preaches important news to the crowds.

The din of the city diminishes into a muffled fear when the guards, their armor polished and otherwise red attire spotless, pass by on their rounds. The general assembly feels a chill but has largely learned to ignore the sight, as normal as it's become.

Nobody notices the lone figure observing with a scowl from twenty feet above their heads.

* * *

Lovino, no longer stock-still on the clay tiles, thinks he's one badass motherfucker - and to give him credit, that title can be well justified. Surviving in Rome with these guards messing everything up isn't exactly a walk through the countryside; the fact that he's done a lot of illegal things under their regime for almost two years without dying should count for _something_, at least. The other citizens still get shoved around, though, as well as cheated and sometimes killed, and that really pisses him off - hence his career choice.

In a surprisingly graceful fashion, he drops down from the side of the building and lands on the stone without even grunting. A few people notice with murmurs, and he hears one man say, "Well _that's_ an unusual sight!" but he is otherwise ignored as he steps to the edge of the stone rail and looks over the Tiber River. He's staring intently at the giant wall of stone enclosing Castel Sant'Angelo. His lip curves upward into a sneer and he feels his hand reaching for his dagger but knows there isn't a single fucking thing he can do anymore.

(They can't be brought back, and he knows it - but then again, he sure as hell can aim to get revenge.)

Finally, he allows his anger to ebb away and heads south, away from the cold stone and instead towards the Pantheon. His black hood hides his eyes from most of the by-passers - as it should - and he even encounters a few Borgia assholes without being noticed. This gives him a smug sense of satisfaction; those stupid bastards can't even recognize him! It's good that he doesn't have to completely rely on tunnels or rooftops to travel, then, because underground becomes creepy at night and high above ground sometimes freaks him out - he swears he'll fucking break something from a fall, one of these days.

About a block from the Pantheon, he passes a soldier who stares at him a little too long for comfort, and so he quickly ducks into an alley to avoid the trouble. And then, provincially, he sees it.

"The fuck is _this_?" Lovino asks himself.

It's a poster. A God damn _poster_. It's easy enough to read - big block letters are screaming MORTI DI VIDO, after all - but the absolute stupidity of it is what makes him stop and stare. Eventually, he stares long enough to get some sense back, shake his head, and then deftly rip it off and stash it in his belt.

"What the hell is the point of posting my name all over the city if those bastards got my face all wrong?" he mumbles as he stalks away.

* * *

"Lovino."

He's still further south, in the heart of Rome, when he hears the tone of the one person whom he wisely doesn't talk shit about. Familiar with the dark corners of Tiber Island like the back of his hand, he slides out of the sun and sits onto the shadowed bench next to the voice. This conversation should be interesting. "Imagine finding a son of a bitch like you here," he casually comments.

"Eloquent, as usual. And please, if you call my mother names, don't treat the consequences lightly: her knife-work is better than most of my men's." The tone is dry, but Lovino senses that the speaker is smiling to himself. "Did you see?"

"Way ahead of you. Ass." Lovino hands the poster over.

The figure chuckles and discards it on the dirty ground. He gets to business. "I have a job for you."

"No, really? I just sat down here on accident."

"As do most of the assassins. It takes one to know one, friend - "

"I'm not your fucking friend."

" - and this job should be easy, I promise."

Lovino pauses. If it's easy, he might consider it. "And you're not doing it yourself because...?"

"I have obligations to other organizations at this time." Meaning he doesn't feel like doing it right now, the bastard. "You kill one man and then get out."

"What, you think I'd be enough of a dumbass to get caught?"

"_Lovino_."

"If you want help, then give me _details_ instead of just stating the obvious, dammit."

The figure stands. "Sometime tomorrow morning," he elaborates, "there will be a new captain, all the way from Barcelona, coming through the western city gate." Pointing across the dirty Tiber River in the general direction of the gate, he continues, "The Borgia have hired him specifically to combat _us_. I say we send him a personal welcoming committee."

"His name?"

"Carriedo. Not that it matters, you realize."

"And that's it? What's in it for me?"

He crosses his arms, waiting. Apparently, Lovino receives the usual reward for this job: allies, support, protection. _Friends_, if he was to go that far.

"Eh... what the hell." Lovino also stands. "Consider it done."

* * *

There are few things more satisfying to Lovino than killing Spanish bastards for his own pleasure; one of these things is looting their bodies.

Usually.

He growls to himself as he finds only ten florentines in one particular lookout's pocket. What the fuck - he doesn't even have any arrows or bullets on him? He has to find _something_ to shoot at his enemies, dammit, and he sure isn't planning on fucking buying any of his own ammo! Pissed, Lovino picks up the body and tosses it into a storage structure, the cloth flapping in the breeze. Since it's well past midnight and everyone on the street is either in love or drunk, nobody notices.

He huffs in extreme annoyance and sits down cross-legged on the roof tiles. Glancing onto the dimly lit street, he sees the tell-tale flash of red and silver armor and wishes he could jump down to kill more guards. But, God damn, duty calls. Assassinating this particular captain had better be worth his time.

"Hey! Get down from there!"

He briefly glances to his right and spies another guard running towards him from the other rooftop; without even looking, he pulls out his gun and shoots. Apparently, his aim is good (which is a miracle in itself, since most of the time the gunpowder just explodes in his face). He hears the guard swallow his own death-cry before falling - an audible crunch resounds on ground-level. This time, a few civilians scream but still don't think to look upward in Lovino's direction.

"Well la-di-da," he sarcastically says to himself. "Look at all the fucks I give."

* * *

Finally, after an obscenely boring wait through the night and into midmorning, his target comes into the city with three guards as escorts. Strutting through the open street, it's apparent he wasn't expecting any trouble on the walk north to the Vatican. Rolling the ache away from his shoulders, Lovino grabs four throwing knives from his pouch and takes aim so automatically that he doesn't even consider that he's ending human life anymore.

From the rooftop, he sees the moment when the blade pierces the captain in the spine and observes how the necks of the guards bend as they fall, their legs going limp. He's used to it now, and has learned to see the beauty in the death of his targets. A few people yell, but overall the busy street maintains its average volume, and no exaggerated commotion is made. Grinning - that _had_ been easy - he jumps down from the roof and heads towards the bodies.

The bystanders (of which there are still plenty) simply stand and watch him, some of them talking to one another in horror and morbid fascination. Not one turns and runs.

The captain is definitely a goner; when Lovino flips him over, his eyes are widened in death and his mouth is forever open in an "O" of surprise. Snorting to himself at the stupid expression, Lovino shuts him up and closes the body's eyelids out of protocol rather than personal respect.

"Requiescat in pace," he deadpans. Briefly, he considers the same respect for the two dead guards, but then figures his time is better spent by -

...Two guards?

Lovino turns around.

The last one, the third soldier he'd counted, is standing there, shaking in his boots and attempting to back into an alleyway unseen. When Lovino faces him, he accidentally squeaks out of fear, and the assassin sees his eyes flash a sickening bright green.

Lovino's own eyes narrow. His right hand flexes for his dagger, but suddenly the guard is sprinting away and out of sight. For a moment, Lovino starts toward him, but then he thinks better of it and stops himself. He should let that fucker be a witness - all the better to catch the Borgia family's attention. Besides, he's not going to just leave these bodies sitting here in favor of chasing some fucking _coward_.

With that in mind, he turns back around. A few people in the small crowd stumble away when he heads in their direction, but he blatantly ignores them and searches one of the guards' pockets.

Ooh, bullets. Awesome.

* * *

After dragging the three bodies to the river and dumping them in without ceremony, he heads south into the countryside of the city to get a little sleep before nightfall. He's actually tired enough that he might be able to overcome his insomnia and crash for a while. The thieves on the outskirts of the country, near the border, have taken a liking to him and his habit of stealing all the shit he can find; maybe there's an open bed in their faction.

The doctor who sells him a sleeping draught sends him a grin, missing a few teeth. "Sweet dreams, signore."

"Sure." Lovino tosses him a few florentines.

With a frown, he notices the bottle is tinted green.

* * *

XXX

* * *

**Notes:** (Yes, I know Lovino is a huge jerk in this. It makes sense in context, promise.)

Hooray for historical-AUs. I searched around FFN and didn't find anything quite like this, so here we are.

The setting is largely based off of _Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood_ (which, as a side note, is literally the best game I've ever played), but since there's very little resemblance to the plot and pretty much none of the characters appearing, it's not going to be labeled as a crossover. Besides, if you got to the end of this chapter and understood everything happening, there really isn't a point in labeling this fic into some obscure corner of the fandom.

But I digress: all the portions and landmarks of Rome described in this chapter and in the rest of the story can actually be identified on some level of historical accuracy. All the details of the papacy and the Borgia family also fit in with real history; if I change something on purpose, I'll mention it.

All people with opinions, criticisms, or praises need only click on the button centered below.


	2. The second botched attempt

XXX

* * *

******Credo**

_The second botched attempt_

* * *

XXX

* * *

Lovino wasn't always like this.

As a kid, he'd been a huge brat. He'd cussed, he'd screamed, he'd bitten, he'd kicked - he did everything and anything if it meant getting his way. As an adult, he could see that he'd been a total ass to pretty much everyone (he still could be one, at times, but he'd at least become conscious of the defect). Even worse, he'd been a coward; when conflict arose, he'd always run for the hills crying his eyes out. It's hard for him to believe, now, that he'd ever been so stupid and weak in his life, and it's even harder for him to think of good reasons his grandfather had allowed him to stick around.

But just the same, a part of him wishes he hadn't been forced down this path. Circumstances always vary, and people have to vary to survive. Times change.

And Lovino? He learned that the hard way.

Sighing to himself as the sun fades through the open window, he rubs the sand from his eyes. Dammit - now he remembers why he doesn't sleep. He gets too fucking philosophical for his own good.

Then he notices the arrow sticking into the floor. Philosophy promptly flies out the window.

"Shit." Hopefully the guys running this building won't get too pissed at the dent in the timber. Reaching for his boots, he forces himself up from the bed and gets fully dressed. There's a silver plate on a table, and he briefly uses it as a mirror to confirm that _This is me, fuck, and I'm not dreaming._

He yanks the arrow from the hard wood and reads the message attached.

_Three places, same time. _

He rolls his eyes. "Hell." This is another reason to hate sleep: he always seems to wake up in deep shit.

* * *

He knows he doesn't appear this way, but Lovino is ridiculously strong and fit. Through his clothes, he looks like he's medium-sized or maybe a little smaller than average, but what mass he does have is toned to the core. Two years of intense training and assassin work forced him into this physique, and he doesn't bother to cover up that he _loves_ his strength. Even though he doesn't use the skill often, he feels an excited spark when he sometimes consciously thinks of how he can break a human neck with his bare hands. As it is, he uses his muscles to climb the facades of buildings more often than anything else.

"It's about time."

"Shut up." Lovino pulls himself up onto the roof, not even sweating. When a note says _three places, same time_ it really just means on top of a specific church near the northern border of the city at whatever time both parties arrive. "I stopped inside for a minute, you asshole."

"Really."

"I was _praying_."

"Honestly? I didn't know you had it in you."

A ping, in his chest. "I wasn't asking anything for _my_ soul."

"...Right." He shifts in the dim light. "You have my condolences for your relatives."

"I don't want a fucking pity party. I want to know why I'm standing here at what-the-hell o'clock past midnight."

"That captain. You killed him, correct?"

Down to business, as usual. "Gave him a knife to the spine."

"Wrong."

Lovino blinks; then he scowls. "What? The hell I'm _wrong_! Do you doubt my aim?"

"Of course not. There _is_ an important difference between aiming for a spine and killing the right person, you know."

"...What the - ?"

"I have a source who says that he made it to the Castel Sant'Angelo - rather shaken from a close run-in, granted, but otherwise unscathed."

For a moment, he doesn't get it. Suddenly, though, it dawns on him what must have happened. "...Fuck." That green-eyed soldier, the one who'd run away... _he_ was the captain - Captain Carriedo, if he remembered that name right. Those tricky sons of bitches must have traded uniforms, and so Lovino had - "_Fuck!_" he repeats himself.

"You know your mistake."

"Yeah. Yeah, I... _Shit_."

"Did he see you?"

"Maybe." Well, _maybe_ meaning _yes_, but Lovino sure isn't going to admit that.

"I was going to suggest you stay away from the island for a while, but if he knows what you look like, then in the meantime you have to kill him and avoid us like the plague. I can't allow you to compromise anyone else's life, you know."

Great. So before he'd been kind of a rogue assassin, and now he's just lost his entire underground support. Great. Fucking _great_. "I'll send you a pigeon once I finish the bastard off," Lovino promises. "Or maybe a hooker, just to spice it up."

"You're disgusting."

"So is your mother."

"Careful, like I said." The figure turns away. "She's very talented with knives - don't push your luck."

He ignores that comment. "I'll take care of this shit."

"You better."

With that, he jumps off the roof and disappears.

* * *

Lovino picks a few pockets belonging to some drunks before heading into town and trying to find a vendor selling good tomatoes. There's one particular market he knows of near the Mausoleo di Augusto that opens pretty early; the glow of a rising sun is hinting over the eastern wall of Rome, so hopefully he won't have to wait to buy himself some breakfast.

Pulling out some florentines for the guy running the stand, he glances at the formidable Castel beyond the buildings and feels the sick fire churning in his stomach. Maybe he'll kill a few more guards today just for the hell of it - it might make him feel better.

Carelessly, a bit of tomato juice drips down his arm.

* * *

How fucking dumb do they think he _is_, exactly?

Lovino rolls his eyes (more out of amusement than anything) and keeps making his way through the street. It's mid-afternoon, now, and the city has worked itself into a frenzy of activity. Not that it means a damn thing to him, most of the time, but this isn't a typical scenario that he often has to deal with, so currently he's glad there's a crowd.

Someone is following him. Who the fucking hell has the _nerve_ to follow him, he doesn't know, but it's definitely an interesting change of pace - usually _he's_ the one doing the following.

Smirking to himself, he blends in as best he can into a small group of people and takes their route with them. Left around a corner, straight, into an alleyway, taking a right - then their small talk is boring him (they're actually having a damn conversation about _flowers_, for God's sake), so he slides through an open gate into a small courtyard enclosed on all sides and backs against the wall with his knees bent. He's probably somewhere near the east bank of the Tiber again, but he stopped paying attention for long enough that -

_Slice._

Whatever stupid guard was tailing him is dead almost instantly; after he pokes his head through the gateway, Lovino rams his dagger right through the asshole's eye socket and pulls him out of the public's view. Scowling to himself as the bloody body falls off his knife and onto the ground, Lovino identifies him as just a regular guard... So what the hell had the bastard been tailing him for?

...Well, he's not going to be complaining. This is a free chance to pickpocket another dead guy who might have valuable shit on his person somewhere, after all. Okay; bending over, he gets to work. No bullets, no significant amount of money - hey, some _poison darts_ - those could be useful -

A shadow crosses his line of vision.

At first, he thinks he imagined it, so he does nothing - but then it happens again. There's someone on the rooftop, crouching the fuck down and _spying_ on him; he can see the outline of the feathers in his helmet. This is _weird._ This is really, really fucking weird and absolutely _not good_.

Not wanting to draw more attention to himself, he forces his hands to continue their automatic search as his heart pounds; the amusement he'd felt is quickly turning into a sick fear. If he's somewhere near the Tiber and the western wall of the city - what buildings are nearby? Is there _anywhere_ to hide? Nothing obvious comes to mind, and it scares the shit out of him. He has to think of a damn plan, fast, or he might be _dead meat_!

The crowd. Dammit, if he just blends in for a minute then he probably won't be outright attacked and can come up with some way to kill this sneaky bastard. Now he rushes back onto the street - _slow down! slow the fuck down!_ - and pretends to be listening intently to two men discussing some new fashion from France. A plan - he needs a plan! No shooting this fucking creeper - too obvious here - no crossbow - he's out of arrows - and the poison darts would take too long - shit shit _shit_ - an accident?

Glancing at the rooftop and still seeing that damnable feather sticking up from behind a chimney (what the _fuck_?), he thinks an accident where the son of a bitch slips and falls is a definite possibility. Now, how to execute it?

As they round a corner and go underneath an overhanging section of a building, Lovino drops out of sight completely and backtracks towards the alley he'd just exited. Hopefully, the guard is over on the other side of the roof and is too fucking stupid to figure out where Lovino's disappeared to right away. Okay, he can do this shit; with practiced precision and strong arms, Lovino pulls himself up the side of the building with incredible ease and indifference. A window ledge there, a beam of timber here - it's a puzzle that he's gotten damn good at piecing together over the years. It's just a game, he tells himself, and his life _isn't_ on the line. It's _just_ a game.

Silently, after reaching the top, he crouches with his legs poised and his calloused fingertips barely grazing the edge of the roof. With any luck, that guard will walk back in his direction, and when he does, Lovino will spring up and pull on his leg so he simply falls over the edge thirty feet onto his ass and dies. Piece of cake - he's done it before.

Tuning out the sounds of the people chattering below, he listens for the ugly clank of armor. There it is - _chunk_ chunk, chunk. _Chunk_ chunk, chunk. Whoever this guy is, it's a shame he really doesn't have a future to practice moving around in his uniform; it sure as hell doesn't sound comfortable to Lovino at the moment. Now if he would move _just_ a little closer!... _Chunk_ chunk, chunk. _Chunk_ chunk -

"Gotcha, fucker!" Lovino yells in spite of himself. Like he'd planned, the bastard's legs are in prime position, and with just the right amount of pressure needed, he propels himself upward to grab one at the kneecap and bend the entire body forwards over the ledge; it's a flawless execution.

What Lovino didn't consider: the bastard falls, and he _grabs onto his own assassin_.

Lovino _screams_ (a girly scream at that), completely taken by the surprise and the pain of suddenly holding up three times his normal weight by his arms. Now, he's lost his footing and is trying to hold them both up by his sweaty hands _fuck_ since the guard refuses to let go of his left foot - and the asshat is _wiggling_, too! - and _shit_ he's slipping and it's going to kill them both if they fall from this height oh _fuck_ oh fuck oh _fuck_ -

With an incredible stroke of luck, Lovino kicks his right foot and manages to hit the bastard's grip _just right_ in the fingers - the guard's squeezing loses its strength and the weight is gone from Lovino's arms - _finally_. Not caring enough about the shouts below to turn and double-check _exactly_ what had happened, he reaches upward and searches for another hand-hold while his feet search for some support -

And as he places his weight on a metal bar, the damn thing breaks, and the buildings are suddenly rising above him as he exhales.

* * *

_(screaming he listens intently to the shrill voices terrified clashing together their timbres echoing through his broken skull not one of them matching the voice he wants to hear dammit - )_

He's somehow aware of his body being flipped over and his arm bashing on something rough. The ground he's on is soft but scratchy. Is it the ground? "Oh, mierda - I hope he's not _dead._"

_(theres no smoke either if there was even the smell of fire he might be able to run quick enough to go and save them fuck theres nothing left he cant hear the one voice - )_

He's being picked up by the shirt. "There's nothing to see here. Now _move_!"

_(this isnt the present now its jumbled in his head god where is he? _Feliciano! Feliciano!_ but he cant hear his brother screaming anymore which means that Feliciano must - )_

"You've given me a _lot_ of trouble, you know?" His Rs trill slightly. Lovino smells tomatoes. "First you kill my guards, and now you nearly kill me. _Again._ Who _are_ you?"

_(oh god no he runs he runs running NO hes too late - )_

Dammit, _it's in the past_! He _has_ to get out of this bastard's strong grip _now_ or he's fucking _done for_! But he can't move, he can't breathe, his head is pounding and he can't even open his eyes because of the shrieking pain echoing through his skull -

"Aw, look at you," the accent mocks. "You hit your head and now you can't answer, is that it?"

It's darker. Lovino somehow feels the cool shade on his body - they must have moved out of the sun - dammit, he has to get out but he _can't move_ -

"Now, which notorious assassin did I manage to catch?"

That's the moment when Lovino gathers every fucking ounce of willpower he has and forces his eyes to open; that's also the moment when the guard pins him up against the wall and roughly pulls Lovino's hood off of his head.

He can't make out many of the bastard's features, but it's impossible to miss his eyes - his bright, green eyes.

Son of a bitch. It's _Carriedo._

"_You_ - ? No, you're just - " The captain sounds stupefied. " - you _couldn't_ have - "

Lovino feels sick to his stomach. As hazy and blurred as the picture is, he sees those eyes twist in confusion, surprise, and - _horror_? Before he has the chance to question why the fuck the captain looks so horrified, though, Carriedo has loosened his grip, and as Lovino falls, his world turns black.

* * *

XXX

* * *

**Notes:** Oh, joy; cliffhangers! (I'm awful about leaving people hanging. Sorry guys!)

Hopefully updates will come a little quicker now - I was on a trip for pretty much the whole month of June, but now that I'm home semi-regularly for the rest of the summer, this will probably keep rolling.


	3. The third sighting

_Temporary edit: I'm not really sure what's going on, but something went funny with this chapter and it didn't stay posted... so if you already got the alert for this one, keep calm and carry on. __(Unless you want to take a moment and review, because that's always a nice use of time.) _

* * *

XXX

* * *

**Credo **

_The third sighting _

* * *

XXX

* * *

_"You know we are relatives of the Medici, si?" _

_Even at nine years old, Lovino's face is already etched into a permanent scowl. "So?"_

_His grandfather directs his attention up from the letter in his hand to look at him sadly. "They think that we should get out of Rome."_

_"...What?" Lovino almost adds "the fuck" to his question, but then he remembers how hard his grandpa's hand feels on his bottom. He scowls even more. "No! This is home!"_

_"We wouldn't have to leave the Stati della Chiesa," the older man says, clarifying. "But my cousin says that the city will soon become dangerous with the new Pope Alexander IV - the Medici are learned people - "_

_Lovino scoffs. "No! That's dumb! This new pope is just another stupid old fart anyway, like the rest of them." He turns because he knows his opinion alone is not enough. "Right Feliciano?"_

_His younger brother is playing on the floor with some cloth and paints. He glances up and tilts his head with a childish smile. "Ve, I bet the pope's just a dummy!" he giggles. "I like home. We can stay, right?"_

_Even at seven years old, Feliciano clinches the deal. Lovino knows he's won that argument when his grandfather's frown turns into a broad grin as he bends over to scoop up his favorite relative. "Aww! You're so cute Feli! We won't leave unless you say so, alright kiddo?"_

_Even without his grandfather's attention, Lovino feels the smugness of the victory; they'll stay in Rome, then._

* * *

If he could change a single thing in his past, it would be that conversation. But how could he have known of the pope's family? How could he have known that the corrupt bastard would eliminate their chances of leaving the city? How could he have known what a stupid, stupid decision it was to make at nine years old? He _hadn't_ known. He had never heard of Rodrigo Borgia before, nor had he ever thought that someone he'd never heard of could destroy everything he cared about.

Now, since he can't change the past, he's learned to settle for the only repentance he can manage - revenge_._

* * *

Blinking lazily, Lovino notices that there's one giant-ass piece of metal in front of his face.

...Huh.

He blinks again.

He identifies it as a needle.

And... is that his fucking arm, also in front of his face?

...

He has to think about this for a bit. His head hurts.

...

Wait.

"Holy _shit_!"

He immediately reaches out with his other hand (like _hell_ he's going to move the arm with a _fucking needle shoved in it!_), but suddenly a red sleeve pins his arm down. "No."

"What the - ? Who the fuck are you?" Lovino asks sourly.

His head is swimming with confusion, and he doesn't want to deal with this right now, dammit! Didn't he... _die_? Or - or get captured or _something_? What the fuck happened to that Carriedo bastard? He _had_ been captured, he'd been shoved against a wall, but it doesn't look like he's a prisoner - he's lying on a God damned bed in a room with a window and - and -

He'd _had_ Lovino, who had attempted to murder him, literally _in his grasp_ - and Carriedo himself had been hired to kill the assassins roaming through the city! What had happened?

What the _fuck_ was going on?

The stranger tilts his head, confused. "No?"

Calm down - good God. Breathe in, breathe out.

Squinting, Lovino focuses in on the guy in red through the dim light. His skin is a weird color, and his face is shaped differently. He looks foreign. Lovino asks slowly and deliberately, "Do you speak Italian?"

The stranger's eyes squint even more than they already do by nature. "Eh-tah-lee-un?" he repeats.

"Fuck. I bet that's a no," he huffs.

"Wang Yao," the stranger says.

"...Huh?"

The man points to himself. "Wang Yao," he repeats.

Oh, his name. "It's a pleasure," Lovino says sarcastically.

"Play-sure?"

"Yeah, _it's a pleasure_."

The stranger points to himself with a knowing smile. "Wang Yao." He points to Lovino. "Play-sure. No?"

For a good minute, Lovino does nothing more than stare. But when it suddenly hits him what this weird-ass foreigner thinks he said, he laughs so hard he almost passes out again.

* * *

He doesn't know exactly where Wang Yao came from, but it must be somewhere in the Far East. Lovino isn't sure of much of anything, though, so he just makes an educated guess that the Asian is in Rome for something related to trade. This makes sense, because most of the traders he knows about congregate near the eastern aqueducts of the city, and that sure as fuck looks like an aqueduct outside the upstairs window. That's good - chances of guards wandering around this area are pretty slim overall.

For whatever reason, Wang Yao is a fucking _genius_ when it comes to using those scary-ass needles. Lovino had woken up on his stomach, face down, without a shirt on - it weirds him out until he realizes that all along his spine he has big pins stuck in random spots. He figures out their purpose pretty quickly, too, because once Wang Yao takes one or two out for a while; after about an hour, Lovino is practically reduced to loud cursing and screaming because _holy fuck his head hurts like hell_. Needless to say, he leaves the huge pin in his arm alone without question after that.

He hates this. He's stuck in this building, unable to do shit. He can't even hold a damn conversation with anyone since the only person he sees doesn't speak his _fucking_ language. Also, he has no idea how the hell he got there - had that captain just left him there on his ass to die? So that would mean that somehow Wang Yao had gotten his nearly-dead body and figured out that Lovino's head had been smacked all on his own. But, logically, that doesn't work, because the chances of Wang Yao wandering around Rome when he doesn't speak fucking Italian are pretty shitty - and Lovino had fallen off that building on the complete _opposite_ side of the fucking city.

...Still. That _must_ have been it. The other possible option doesn't make a fucking ounce of sense - if the Asian hadn't found him, that means Carriedo somehow knew about Wang Yao and his freaky needles (which, to be really honest, seem to work better for the pain in his head than any medicine these Italian medics would give him), and so the son of a bitch dragged Lovino the whole way across fucking Rome to get him fixed up. Considering that Lovino had, you know, tried to kill the asshole _twice_ and that Carriedo was the one who had caused Lovino to fall and bash his God damned head in the _first_ place, that argument doesn't contain a single fucking piece of logic.

So, that's his current predicament: after three days of lying there without knowing what the fuck happened, Lovino is both having the shit bothered out of him with these questions swimming through his head and pissed at not being able to do much of anything.

Also, for some weird-ass reason, Wang Yao keeps trying to feed him fucking _pears_. Lovino doesn't want any fucking _pears_ - all he wants is a tomato, and he has no idea how the hell to ask for one. The only word Lovino might have figured out is "ying," because Wang Yao won't shut the fuck up about it. He's willing to bet that it means "Wow you wish you were outside right now," because it always comes with a motion towards the window.

"Fuck," he groans to himself as he stares out, wishing he could be out there somewhere and not stuck inside with a broken head and insomnia. "Fucking _ying_. Fuck my life."

* * *

That night - he does manage to fall asleep on his own, for the first time in days, but all he dreams of is finally finding Feliciano's body as he pulls it from the Tiber River. His arms shake and he feels vomit crawling up his throat when the skeleton nearly falls apart in his hands and maggots crawl out of the skull where his brother's beautiful brown eyes once were.

He wakes up screaming; when it's apparent Wang Yao hasn't heard him, he keeps it that way and buries his sobbing into his pillow.

* * *

When he thinks about it later, though, some part of him is actually quite thankful; two years after the fact, the chances of finding his brother's body are next to none. If it was pulled from the river by now, he has the awful feeling that it would be so much worse - so thank God. That's one ghost he never has to face.

* * *

Finally, after almost a week of not doing shit, Wang Yao takes all the needles out of his skin late one night past sunset. Lovino's head throbs a little, but it's not nearly as bad as he thinks it could be. After some haggling that neither of them really understand, the Italian leaves the Asian a few thousand florentines for giving a fuck. Lovino heads west.

His first stop is at the Pantheon, which is completely deserted at that time of night. He spends half an hour there on his knees in the cold darkness, skipping over all the rites he'd learned as a kid - the hell with praying for the damned pope, and the hell with praying to some statue of a saint he doesn't care about. For a few minutes of his time, it's just him and the weight of his world; he doesn't ask for anything but instead just imagines. Lovino knows that, if God even bothers listening to his thoughts, He knows exactly what Lovino is hoping for, and despite the situation, it somehow makes him feel a little better.

As real as it is, though, he leaves his religion at the doorway. To reflect any more, in his life, is too risky and stupid.

Now it's time to take care of that bastard captain.

* * *

It takes him almost ten tries, but eventually he presses his dagger to the throat of a guard who's heard of Carriedo and knows where he is. There's a tower nearby, just north of Tiber Island, where the son of a bitch is currently headquartered. He slits his informer's windpipe, robs him of his weapons, dumps the body onto the street, and moves on.

Lovino slinks along the clay tiles. It's broad daylight now, and the bright sun makes his head hurt, but he knows his target will be easier to spot. Unfortunately for him, _easier to spot_ doesn't usually mean _easier to kill_. The place will probably be crawling with soldiers - his chances of getting the fuck away from them alive are next to none.

He bends behind a chimney and observes the place he'd been directed to. Hell, he was so right; they're practically oozing out of the cracks in the brick buildings. There're at least twenty circling the area, and there's probably a fuckton more hanging around inside - not to mention how many of them are on the nearby rooftops.

Hmm... They might prove useful, actually.

His eyes dart around the square in front of him, and after a moment he sees it - that damn feather, perched on a set of armor belonging to a captain.

Target: found.

Cautiously, as he listens for shouting (it's possible he might be spotted, after all), Lovino pulls out his crossbow. One of the guards he'd killed earlier that morning had had a few arrows on his person, and with quick precision he loads his weapon and aims.

Once he shoots, the effect is instantaneous.

Maybe a hundred yards away, he hits one of the bastards patrolling the roofs, right beneath his ribcage; doubling over, the guard falls off the building and directly onto a smaller group of soldiers on patrol. The area is suddenly filled with shouting, and every guard there turns his attention towards the scene.

Looking back at Carriedo, Lovino sees that he's no exception. But then, as the guards surrounding the captain disperse and rush to the fallen guy, Carriedo lingers behind and instead sweeps his gaze over the nearby buildings. From his viewpoint, Lovino frowns. The captain is looking for the fucking culprit - and he's already figured out the assassin is on a roof. _Interesting_. Apparently he's a hell of a lot quicker than these other dumbasses, because Lovino can't think of a single soldier who'd ever picked that up before.

Unfortunately for him, _quicker_ and _smarter_ didn't seem to go hand in hand with this guy... A vague idea comes into Lovino's head - if the fucker was dumb enough to chase him once, will he do it again? That would save Lovino a hell of a lot of trouble, since he could lead the captain away from his guards and not have to worry about being caught...

He reloads his crossbow and shoots, missing Carriedo's head by a few measly inches. The captain jumps (the fucking _hell_? - how'd he become a captain if he freaks out like this?), and after a brief second of searching he notices Lovino biting his thumb.

Making a rude gesture in his direction, the assassin takes off.

* * *

XXX

* * *

**Notes:** Dod _gammit_, I never understood why people couldn't update anything in college before actually starting school. Never again will I complain about a lack of updates from anyone _ever_. Seriously.

This chapter probably didn't turn out the way any of you expected, amirite?


End file.
